


all your curves and all your edges

by seventhstar



Series: love's like a runway [3]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Project Runway Fusion, Anal Sex, Body Image, Chubby Katsuki Yuuri, Fashion Designer Katsuki Yuuri, Light Bondage, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Measuring Tape Bondage, POV Katsuki Yuuri, Self-Esteem Issues, Supportive Victor Nikiforov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 12:06:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12747984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhstar/pseuds/seventhstar
Summary: Yuuri puts on some weight and realizes that there's only one thing to do: avoid letting Viktor see him naked for the rest of his life.It's foolproof. What could go wrong?[aka Project Runway AU porn]





	all your curves and all your edges

**Author's Note:**

> Here is the Project Runway porn this fandom deserves.
> 
> Dedicated to all my Discord friends, who have been a support to me in a trying time.

Yuuri’s body betrays him insidiously.

One minute he’s trim and wearing crop tops; he blinks, six months have passed, and he’s...not. He’s softened from the waist down. He resembles a pear. When he sucks in his gut in the mirror, his gut _still exists._

Yuuri is grateful that his relationship with Viktor is long distance, because ninety percent of Viktor’s time is spent doing vigorous physical activity and if he were there to see Yuuri’s transformation in person, he would definitely rethink this whole dating thing. At least, Yuuri’s grateful until he remembers that cameras exist, and that he and Viktor are in the habit of having Skype sex on Sunday afternoons.

So he skips the next Sunday by saying he has a lot of work. (This is true; starting your own line, even with a hundred thousand dollars and a ton of free press, is hard.) And he skips the next Sunday, citing a cold (it’s really more of a sniffle.) And he skips the next three by pretending that he has meetings, an event he forgot, and a deadline. (Those last two are just straight up _lies,_ but Yuuri is desperate at this point.)

By week six, Viktor sounds distinctly irritated over the phone when he calls Yuuri from the airport. He’s on his way to Paris to do an endorsement ad, and Yuuri can hear snatches of Russian over the intercom in the background.

“I’ll be at the hotel Sunday,” Viktor says. “If you’re not busy. But if you are, that’s _fine,_ I brought a vibrator with me.”

“Vitya—”

“And Chris is going to be there and he mentioned something about an orgy.”

“I’m not busy,” Yuuri says, overwhelmed by guilt and the vague fear that Viktor might actually go to an orgy. He’ll just set up the webcam so his stomach isn’t visible, or jerk off fully dressed, or something. “I’ll call you?”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“Because you said that last week,” Viktor continues, “and if I’m not doing it right—”

“You’re fine,” Yuuri croaks, “Very sexy. I swear.”

“Well, good. So you’ll be at home Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t go _anywhere?”_

“I’ll be at home!”

“Okay!” Viktor perks up.

 “How did your jump workshop go?”

“It was fun! I taught two of Yakov’s new skaters how to do a quad toe loop. And Mila came, too—apparently she’s going to try for a quad—”

Viktor rambles about his jump workshop for a few minutes, while Yuuri gets out his webcam and checks to see if the software has any filters that will disguise him as attractive. Nope; he’s doomed to look like a pig in front of Viktor, albeit a pig with great lighting.

“Oh, Yuuri, weren’t you designing an accessory for Bluefly?”

“Yes, it’s a purse. It’s not done though…”

“Send me a picture!”

“Okay…”

“Ah, that’s my flight boarding. Bye!”

“Love you,” Yuuri says faintly.

“I love you too!” Viktor says, exuberant, and then he hangs up.

Yuuri sucks in a deep breath, stares at his stomach onscreen, and then closes his laptop. Maybe if he diets for the rest of the week, he’ll be able to take his clothes off in front of Viktor without shame.

Oh, wait. It’s Friday already. Yuuri gives up; shame it is.

He spends the remaining two days of being Viktor’s boyfriend stress-eating an entire bar of flavored butter and dipping chips in gourmet cilantro mayo and doing crunches and flipping through his album of things he can’t believe Viktor sent him, Yuuri Katsuki, nobody designer from small town Japan.

(This includes a number of sexts, some very well filtered nudes, pictures of Viktor’s dog, the receipt from a box of chocolate covered strawberries Viktor sent on Valentine’s day, an article about Viktor’s Fashion on Ice performance that mentioned his ‘budding romance with Yuuri Katsuki’, and a selfie of Viktor with bedhead and crusty eyes.)

Sunday dawns grey and cold, just like Yuuri’s mood, and he spends a fruitless morning in his studio, trying to finish the mockup of the handbag for Bluefly and reviewing a contract to sell his upcoming line in department stores. It’s dense and there’s a lot of legal jargon; Yuuri gives up by noon and eats lunch (more mayo) while brooding.

Viktor normally calls at two. Yuuri goes for a run at a quarter til one, comes back late because he got distracted by a dogwalker with six very excited puppies, and then has to frantically shower and change so that he can look acceptable.

He’s panicking over his outfit choices, the clock ticking down to two, when the doorbell rings.

It’s probably Yuuri’s butter of the month club box. He throws on the nearest shirt over pajama pants—he’ll dress properly in a minute—and rushes to the door.

He opens it.

It’s Viktor.

Yuuri slams the door shut. Then he locks it.

“Yuuri?”

“What the _fuck,”_ Yuuri says. He stares down at himself in despair. Then he gives up and opens the door again. “Sorry.”

“Surprise!”

“I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Yes, that’s why it’s a surprise.”

“Right.” Yuuri stares at him. He’s dressed like a fashion plate, in a bright red longcoat and orange gloves and sunglasses. Yuuri is wearing an oversized Taco Bell tshirt and flannel pajama pants with a hole two inches from his dick.

“Can I come in?”

_No,_ Yuuri thinks. “Sure,” he says.

The apartment is filthy, a fact Yuuri only remembers when Viktor comes in and can’t sit down because there’s three loads of laundry piled on top of the couch. He takes Viktor’s coat, realizes he has nowhere to put it, and sets it on the dining table. He grabs a dining room chair—a metal folding chair, why is this happening to him—and offers Viktor a drink.

“Sure, what do you have?”

“...water?” Yuuri says. “Tequila?”

“Good tequila?”

“It was on sale.”

“Water is fine.”

Yuuri has to wash a glass before he can bring Viktor water. Then he has to push some of the laundry out of the way so he can sit down.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Viktor says. He’s smiling, his mouth like a heart, his eyes crinkled at the corners with happiness. He’s leaning forward, like the six inches between their knees is too much distance.

“Welcome to Detroit,” Yuuri says. Small talk. He can handle small talk. “Did you have a good flight?”

“It was terrible. There weren’t any first class seats.” Viktor puts his hand on Yuuri’s knee. “But it brought me to you, so I don’t mind.”

Despite himself, Yuuri blushes.

“Do you want to see my studio?” The studio is cleaner than the apartment, and full of shiny things to distract Viktor from Yuuri’s expanded waistline.

“Yes.” Viktor downs his water in one gulp and makes a face. Yuuri probably should have rinsed the glass a few more times.

The studio is in the same building, just one floor down; Yuuri takes Viktor down the back stairs to avoid running into anyone he might know.

Once inside, he feels a bit better. Yuuri’s designing, unlike his body, can’t be ruined by his mental weakness. The mockups of his ready to wear line are displayed on dress forms, with notes on styling, options to reduce the cost of manufacturing, and inspirational photos tacked to corkboards on the walls. The page Viktor autographed for him during the show is framed and hanging between the two huge windows.

Viktor gravitates to the fanciest piece, the slinky dress, first.

“This looks familiar,” he says.

“It’s based on one of your old costumes from Juniors,” Yuuri says softly. It’s a black dress, floor length, with a daring slit. The bodice and the sleeves are embellished with crystals; there’s an asymmetric mesh panel wrapped around one side. The lining of the skirt is bright red.

(Yuuri has spent more time than he would ever admit wearing this dress, and taking pictures of himself in romantic lighting, and trying to figure out how he got from being a kid in a homemade version of Viktor’s costume to a designer making his own version to be sold to the masses.)

“Wow. It’s beautiful, Yuuri.” Viktor touches the skirt with two fingers. The fact that he doesn’t immediately start fondling the dress carelessly makes Yuuri love him even more. “I like the lining.”

“Thanks.”

Viktor examines every one of Yuuri’s pieces with the same care he gives the first. He peers at shirts and straightens collars and sighs over a red suit from Yuuri’s menswear line with such pleasure that Yuuri offers to make him one immediately.

“Really?”

“Of course. I owe you, anyways. I borrowed a lot of this collection from your style.”

“I’m honored.” Viktor runs a fingertip down the lapel of the suit jacket. “I can’t take credit, though! You always come up with such interesting things.”

Yuuri flushes, but he accepts the praise without argument. Viktor turns to him, then, and he looks at Yuuri with the same longing he directed at the suit. He cups Yuuri’s chin, thumb catching at Yuuri’s lip, and leans in.

All of Yuuri’s half-formed plans to avoid physical contact go out the window. Viktor’s arms pull his in and Viktor’s mouth finds Yuuri’s mouth and Yuuri melts in his arms like a sugar cube on a hungry tongue. He buries his hands in Viktor’s soft hair and kisses Viktor back with all the passion he can muster.

It’s not until his back hits the wall as Viktor’s hands slide up his shirt that Yuuri comes to his senses.

“Wait,” he gasps. “Not here. Upstairs.”

“Tease,” Viktor says, but he sounds as breathless as Yuuri feels, and he keeps his arm around Yuuri’s waist the entire time they’re rushing up the steps.

He has Yuuri up against the front door the instant it shuts behind them.

“Vitya—Vitya—”

“Yuuri,” Viktor mumbles between kisses.

His mouth is trailing down Yuuri’s neck, against the tiny sliver of his chest visible above the neckline of Yuuri’s tee. He’s pushing up Yuuri’s shirt, and the touch of his fingertips against Yuuri’s pudge is enough to make him cringe again. He has to get control over the situation. If Viktor sees him _naked,_ it’s all over.

“Bedroom,” Yuuri says. He pushes Viktor. “Please. Now.”

Yuuri’s bedroom is a disaster, just like every other room in the apartment, but Viktor lets Yuuri shove him onto the bed without complaint, and Yuuri stops caring about the crumpled sheets and the empty bottle of mayo sitting on the nightstand. Viktor strips off his sweater, his shirt, starts in on his belt.

God, he’s gorgeous, all hard planes and smooth skin, a smattering of freckles on his shoulders, a scar on his stomach that Yuuri has no idea the origin of. Yuuri runs both hands down Viktor’s chest. Then he yanks the belt through the loops, unzips Viktor’s fly, and flips him over.

Viktor’s not wearing underwear.

His ass is ridiculously firm and round. Yuuri’s taken measurements of every inch of Viktor’s body, but he’s still always surprised by the perfection of his proportions.

Yuuri rummages around in the bedside table and produces a bottle of lube, and condoms, and an extra-long tape measure.

“Hey.” Yuuri takes Viktor’s wrists and folds his arms behind his back. “Hold still?”

The tape measure is a bit hard to tie, but Yuuri’s been practicing.

With Viktor on his knees, forehead resting against the covers, Yuuri can’t be seen. He can’t be humiliated. And he can do whatever he wants with Viktor, which is everything.

“I didn’t fly here from Russia just for you to tie me up and look at m—oh, fuck.”

He breaks off as Yuuri pumps a dollop of lube between his cheeks. He smears it across Viktor’s hole—so tight, so pink, he wonders how long it’s been for Viktor if he’s this desperate—and then gently pushes a finger in.

Viktor whimpers, rolling his hips back against Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri grabs him by the hip to steady him—he’s shaking, god, Yuuri is hard—before he slips another finger in. Viktor clenches down.

“Please,” he says.

“Shh,” Yuuri murmurs. Viktor starts to turn his head. Yuuri has to distract him.

He’s not convinced Viktor is really prepped enough by the time he’s shoving down his pants, hyperaware of both his own chubby thighs and the feel of Viktor’s hard dick, but Viktor’s been reduced to begging shamelessly and Yuuri doesn’t have that kind of patience. Yuuri gets up on his knees on the bed behind Viktor. The line of Viktor’s spine is delicious, sweat beading on his back.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says as the head of Yuuri’s cock brushes against him. “Yes, come on, I—”

Viktor’s ass feels just as good as it looks. Yuuri digs his nails into Viktor’s skin so hard he knows there’ll be marks. And then he gives it to him like it’s their last time instead of their first.

“Vitya—”

“Ah, Yuuri—”

The slap of their skin together is as loud as Viktor’s cries, Viktor is trembling as Yuuri shoves him down against the mattress, the cheap bedframe is creaking like it might break.

Viktor muffles something like a scream in the blanket as he comes. Yuuri isn’t far behind him; he rests his forehead against Viktor’s back, wrecked. Fuck. He feels like he’s just been ironed flat.

Then he realizes that if he leans against Viktor, Viktor might feel his fat, and scrambles away so fast he falls off the bed.

Viktor groans. “Are you okay?” He starts to sit up.

“Fine!” Yuuri jumps to his feet and starts fumbling with the knots around Viktor’s wrists. The tape measure is ruined, but whatever, Yuuri will happily buy Viktor a dozen tape measures if he’ll let Yuuri keep tying him up. Who knew using bondage to avoid his problems could be this much fun. Viktor rubs at his wrists, and Yuuri bends down to grab his pants.

Maybe if he hurries, he can be covered up before Viktor sees—

“What are you doing? Come here,” Viktor whines. He is looking directly at Yuuri, which is bad, and his eyes are lingering in places Yuuri does not want them to linger, which is worse. He rolls over onto his back and holds out his arms.

Yuuri drops his shirt and crawls reluctantly into them. Viktor’s torso isn’t the most comfortable thing Yuuri has ever laid on, but he’s warm and he smells good and he tucks Yuuri’s head under his chin. One of his hands drops to Yuuri’s side, where’s he’s developed a layer of extra flesh.

“I’m working on losing the weight,” Yuuri lies. “I promise. It’s just hard because I wasn’t really eating when I was on the show but now that I’m home I can have butter delivered and—”

“Stop,” Viktor says.

“What?”

“You’re adorable. And cuddly.”

“...okay?”

“I don’t really care if you lose weight or not.”

“But you’re so....muscly.”

“Mm.” Viktor nuzzles him. “You’re squishy.”

“Not helping.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Can we have pizza?”

“I’m dieting.”

“Can _I_ have pizza? It was a long flight from Paris. And I don’t eat plane food.”

“Fine, I’ll order it.” Yuuri buries his face against Viktor’s throat. He’s comfortable, and safe, and apparently the sight of Yuuri’s body isn’t going to send Viktor screaming for the hills. Yuuri’s not going to question it. At least, he’s not going to question it out loud.

He can obsess about it later.

Ordering a pizza means he needs his phone. It can wait five minutes.

“Eventually.”

Eventually doesn’t come; Yuuri falls asleep right there, nestled naked in Viktor’s grasp.

When he wakes up Viktor is watching him with fond eyes. His fingers skirt down Yuuri’s body, over hard and soft places alike, without discrimination.

“My treasure,” he says. “You’re beautiful.”

Yuuri almost believes him when he says it like that.

“Hey,” he says, before he can wake up and think better of it. “Do you want to see me in a dress?”

“...Yuuri,” Viktor breathes, pupils dark with lust. He ducks his head to kiss Yuuri again.

(The pizza doesn’t get ordered until that evening. They sit together in the living room in only their shirts. Viktor folds the laundry with him while they wait for delivery, offering commentary on the infomercials playing on TV. Yuuri tries to convince him no one needs a Siamese Slanket.

Viktor buys one anyway. And then he sensually feeds Yuuri half the pizza.)

**Author's Note:**

> [So the Siamese Slanket actually exists and I will write anyone draws Viktor and Yuuri under one a Project Runway AU ficlet of their choice.](https://www.theslanket.com/shop/the-slanket-siamese/)
> 
> comment if you want more project runway au, or if you want ao3 to make "measuring tape bondage" a real tag


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